CHAPTER TWELVE

Dream Team

---

 

Hajime’s eyes flew open.

“I-I’m back,” he gasped.

His head hurt as if ants were crawling around in his brain. It was a pain that vanished in the seconds it took him to sit up. Or so he thought. A second later, Hajime was climbing out of bed so he could puke his guts out on the nearby trash bin. It would be a while before he would rise from the floor.

“But…was it real?”

In the cold light of day, Hajime couldn’t help but doubt it just a little. The fact that his spirit had been summoned to another world while his body slept.

“It couldn’t have been a dream…”

The details of his dream—from the features of the otherworlders’ faces to the sound of their voices, the taste of elderberry tea on his tongue or the stench of a beast’s carcass on his nose—they were too vivid for his imagination to have conjured them up on its own.

“Arienai…my imagination’s good, but it’s not that good…”

Butterflies danced in Hajime’s stomach.

“It wasn’t a dream… It happened…”

Elation blossomed in his chest.

“Meaning…”

While wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth with his shirt, Hajime strode over to the glass door at the other end of his bedroom. He pushed it open and walked out onto his apartment’s balcony which had a good view of Central Park from across the street.

Then, with the breeze on his face and joy in his heart, Hajime pumped his fists into the air. “Yatta!”

He basked in the glory of his revelation while the late afternoon sun shone down on him.

“I’m a chosen one!”

“Good for you!” yelled one of Hajime’s older neighbors who was out on the balcony to the left of his. “Now, shut up, asshole! I’m trying to read here!”

With cheeks turning the color of apples, Hajime bowed hurriedly.

“Sumimasen, Kent-San.”

Hajime dove back for the safety of his apartment. He shut the door and then leaned against its glass. Then he laughed. He laughed until his sides hurt, and then Hajime laughed some more. When he was done with his fit of hysterics, determination flashed on the Japanese man’s face.

“I’ll resign today.”

An hour later, the chiming of the elevator doors woke Hajime up from his musings.

He’d been thinking about the contract he’d signed with the Aarders—the name he’d given the otherworlders—and was wondering how they could improve on it so that the experience for other Earthers wouldn’t feel as strange as what he’d gone through. The thought of the small meat doll that had morphed into a ‘Funky Pop’ version of him after he’d given it a drop of his blood still caused shivers to climb up Hajime’s spine hours after Rowan had conjured it out of the remains of the carcass of the monster whose blood had given Hajime form.

“Maybe we can make the summoning chamber look like airport immigration…” Hajime knew this was a silly idea while he said it. “Airport immigration is scary too…especially in American airports.”

The elevator doors opened to a pristine white space that was once the setting for Hajime’s worst nightmares. Today though, the sight of the studio’s lobby no longer filled him with paralyzing fear.

“You’re late,” said a familiar voice that tickled Hajime’s ears to hear.

A pretty blonde with almond-shaped hazel eyes slid into view in front of the elevator. She had her arms crossed over her chest. Sliding over to stand beside Bridget while looking tired as ever was Hajime’s boss.

A bittersweet smile flashed on Hajime’s face. “Bridget-San, Chris-senpai…”

One of Bridget’s long eyebrows arched upward, but then, as realization dawned on her, she gave Hajime a smile that could light up a room.

“Crikey! You’re finally doing it,” she guessed.

Hajime nodded.

After he stepped out of the elevator, Hajime took out the crumpled white envelope from his jacket pocket and offered it to Chris with a bow.

Chris let out a heavy sigh. “Darn it, not you too…”

“Eh?” Hajime glanced up.

To his surprise, both Chris and Bridget were grinning conspiratorially at him.

“I guess great minds really do think alike,” Bridget said, laughing afterward.

From her jeans pocket, she produced a folded white envelope.

“Ee~~eh!” Hajime stepped back. “You also, Bridget-San?”

“Not just me.” Bridget cocked her head to the side. “Chris is gone too.”

Again, Chris let out a heavy sigh. Then he too produced a white envelope from his jacket pocket.

“The studio’s big three quitting on the same day…” Chris shook his head. Though his tired face cracked into a grin when he added, “I reckon we’ll all be unemployed together.”

“No, we won’t…” It took him a few seconds, but Hajime’s brain eventually accepted this strange coincidence as good fortune, and he couldn’t help grinning now too. “We’re the chosen ones!”

---

Some days after their fated meeting, Bram, Rowan, and their new companions arrived at the city of Bellen on the northern tip of Bastille Shire.

Located on the outskirts of the Red Forest, the great woodland realm bordering central and northern Lotharin, Bellen was an important city that was both a focus of trade and a gateway between the north and center.

Getting into Bellen wasn’t difficult as the walled city hadn’t yet yielded to the rule of the northern nobles. Although their influence could be felt within its walls through the tensions growing between locals and their northern visitors such as the altercation happening at this very moment only a few yards past the city gates.

“What’re you looking at?” growled a gray-bearded, barrel-chested man in a fur jacket.

“I-I’m not looking at anything, sir,” replied a sandy-haired boy with a bag of firewood slung over his back. “I-I was just minding my own business…o-on my way back to the smithy…”

“You calling me a liar then?” the gray-bearded man growled. “I saw you eyeing my mate’s purse just now, bas—”

A great black stallion pulled to a stop between them, forcing the gray-bearded man to back away or risk getting trampled on. Sitting astride this stallion, his face half-veiled in a mercenary’s hood, was the seventh prince of Atlan.

“What the bloody hell—”

Bram spoke no words, but the daggers in his eyes revealed the seething rage that seemed to be ever-present underneath the surface of his calm demeanor.

Now, the gray-bearded fellow was no small man, but he couldn’t help shutting up at the sight of Bram’s hostility. For even with his lack of talent in sorcery, the seventh prince’s physique alone made him an intimidating encounter to anyone who didn’t know his true identity.

“Oi,” a short-haired woman with a scar on her left cheek pulled on the gray-bearded man’s arm from behind, “now’s not the time to start trouble…remember?”

She wore a similar fur jacket as the gray-bearded man. The noble crest on her left sleeve was of a pair of blue clouds, marking her as a member of House von Galen’s forces. The two others standing behind her wore the same uniform as well.

“I wasn’t looking for no trouble.” the gray-bearded man nodded toward Bram. “That bloke’s the one who tried to trample me.”

The scarred woman eyed Bram warily, and he returned her gaze with a cool eye.

“We’re soldiers of—”

“Baron Archibald von Galen,” Bram finished for her. “What of it?”

She seemed taken aback by his brazenness, and an increased wariness flashed on her face.

Bram understood.

Most mercenaries would’ve sheathed their hostility at the mention of a noble patron. At least this was true for those without patrons themselves.

“Baron Archibald does not rule this city…”

Bram made a show of gazing back toward Bellen’s gate which was a good forty yards away behind them. Unfurled upon its high walls were banners of a red pinecone on a field of yellow.

“This is Leyen land…”

When his golden-eyed gaze returned to the scarred woman’s face, Bram’s hand went to the pommel of his sword.

Then, as if on cue, a second stallion rode up beside Bram’s. Its rider was a tall, fair-skinned man in a brown padded jacket whose shoulders were nearly as wide as the seventh prince’s. He had short-cropped sandy hair and a mustache that were both done in styles uncommon in Lotharin. Like Bram’s entrance, he spoke no words, but a pair of deep blue eyes underneath bushy brows gazed intently down on the scarred woman as well.

Mistaking these two riders as House Leyen’s men, the scarred woman raised her hands in peace. “We’re not looking for trouble…”

With a nod of her chin, the other soldiers of von Galen, including the gray-bearded man, began walking away. However, before she followed them, the scarred woman tossed a furled scroll up at Bram.

“The baron pays a lot more for strong-armed mercenaries than House Leyen can,” she promised. “Come find us at the Red Pine Inn if you’re interested.”

With one last wary look at Bram and his friend, the scarred woman chased after her companions who’d joined the throng of people moving deeper into the city’s interior.

Bram peeked at the contents of the scroll and smiled. “I may take you up on that offer.”

While thoughts of infiltrating the baron’s forces played in his mind, a russet stallion trotted over to his other side, its rider veiled by a deep emerald hood.

“You ask me not to make a scene”—Rowan sounded amused—“and yet here you are playing the errant knight.”

At her words, Bram glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of the sandy-haired boy the gray-bearded man accosted. The lad had probably escaped during the stand-off.

“He didn’t even bother to thank you,” Rowan commented.

“I didn’t do it for gratitude,” Bram said as he steered his steed back to where Hajime was struggling with his horse on the opposite side of the road. “I only—”

“You wanted to blow off steam,” Rowan finished his thought.

Bram sighed but nodded.

Over the last few days, the northern nobles staying in Bastille had begun to make noise. They didn’t challenge him overtly, but Baron Archibald and Vicomte Henry had started a campaign to gain supporters among the highborn of Bastille to create an opposition against Bram’s rule in the center. This wasn’t difficult to achieve since many of the central nobles already thought poorly of their new governor, including the eorls of the three shires bordering Bastille to the south, east, and west. Meanwhile, the two lords’ men had also started causing trouble among the locals of Bastille much like what they were doing here in Bellen.

Truthfully, Bram’s patience was growing thin, though he stayed his hand—and his rage—for he didn’t yet have the strength to fight back.

“Patience,” Rowan reminded him. “Our time will come.”

“I know…” Bram turned to face their new companion next. “Thank you for your assistance, Chris.”

“Where I come from, having a friend’s back is just the right thing to do, Your High—”

Biosoft’s former executive producer for triple-A games coughed.

“—Apologies,” Chris grinned sheepishly at the seventh prince, “Boss…”

Bram noticed once more that Chris’ accent was different from Hajime’s. It had a low, melodic drawl to it. This wasn’t the only contrast between the two otherworlders either. Chris, with his chiseled face, straight nose, and fair skin looked like a native-born of Lotharin or even Dane to the west. Whereas Hajime, with his sharp features, tan skin, and smaller physique looked like he hailed from Yamadai in the north or Xanxi to the east.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t have been any help in a fight,” Chris nodded to the ghostly blue window floating close to his face. “It’s been a few days but I’m still getting used to all of this.”

As the Loom’s chief administrator, Bram was privy to the statuses of all those who joined the great undertaking. It’s how he knew that Chris had chosen to become a ‘Squire’, one of the only two beginner jobs that the Loom offered to the otherworlders.

“You at least ride better than your friends,” Rowan noted.

“I grew up in Dallas, Ma’am. Big swaths of farmland and wilderness as far as the eye can see. Riding’s kind of a prerequisite over there,” Chris explained.

From what Bram had read in Chris’ status, ‘Intermediate Riding’ was indeed one of his passive abilities, one that was created after the Loom had analyzed the otherworlder’s inherent capabilities. Incidentally, ‘Athletic’ and ‘Bodybuilding’ were also abilities Chris automatically earned thanks to how he lived on Earth.

The Texan patted his stallion’s neck. “This guy’s doing all the work. I’m just coasting on his coattails.”

While Chris rode alongside him, Bram observed that his new companion had lost much of the gauntness that had marred his face when they met several nights ago. He thought this was a good thing because it meant Chris was enjoying his time on Aarde enough that his health was recovering from the fatigue of overworking. Bram hoped all the otherworlders they summoned in the future would feel the same sense of rejuvenation. It would burden his conscience less if they did.

“Um,” Chris’ brow knotted together, “I reckon Hajime’s about to lose his fight.”

One of Rowan’s eyebrows hitched upward. “Should we help him?”

They were close enough now to hear Hajime’s words as he attempted to rein in his steed.

“S-stop, please!” Hajime pleaded. “Stop — not into that alley — yamete!”

Since using his auto-carriage would defeat the purpose of a clandestine visit to Bellen, Bram had chosen the tamest of the horses in his bastion’s stables for Hajime who’d admitted that he’d never ridden before. Unfortunately, not even the most well-trained beast could support Hajime’s abysmal riding skill, or rather, the lack of one.

His gray steed nearly ran off into a narrow alley, and it would have taken the Loom’s new Lead Game Designer along with it too if not for the reflexes of the woman riding the palomino stallion next to him.

With deft speed, Bridget—wearing a simple riding coat over a linen shirt and leather breeches—plucked the horse’s reins just as it slipped from Hajime’s grasp. She then brought the beast to a heel before it could run off with only a stern voice and an even sterner glare.

When he saw this, Bram couldn’t help but think that the Loom was truly intuitive. For he’d already seen ‘Beast Handling’ in the list of abilities on Bridget’s status. Like Chris, she too had chosen to become a squire which was the more physical of the two beginner professions. On the other hand, Hajime, the only otherworlder to qualify for becoming an ‘Arcane Novice’ so far, proved to Bram that an aptitude in sorcery didn’t automatically give one an advantage on Aarde.

“Having trouble, Hajime?” Rowan asked teasingly.

“Rowan-San,” Hajime sighed, “I don’t think this horse likes me…”

“You’ll be fine,” Bridget cut in, “so long as you stay close to me.”

“That might be best,” Rowan agreed. “You can save him again before he falls off and dies from an accident.”

“And we wouldn’t want that to happen before the game’s release,” Bridget finished Rowan’s thought.

They’d only known each other a few days but it did seem to Bram like Rowan and Bridget were fast becoming friends. It was an interesting development to think that the rebel trickster of legend could meet true companions among the otherworlders. Indeed, Bram, who’d had very little experience with the illusive concept of friendship, secretly hoped he could have the same lucky encounter Rowan had with Bridget. He would never admit this out loud though.

“Well, if you’re all ready,” the seventh prince turned his gaze toward the high spires of Bellen’s interior, “let’s move on. Our new party’s first adventure awaits.”